Four men were discussing the verdict at the adjourned inquest
upon Victor Bidlake, at Soto's American Bar about a fortnight
later. They were Robert Fairfax, a young actor in musical
comedy, peter Jacks, a cinema producer, Gerald Morse, a dress
designer, and Sidney Voss, a musical composer and librettist, all
habitues of the place and members of the little circle towards
which the dead man had seemed, during the last few weeks of his
life, to have become attracted. At a table a short distance
away, Francis Ledsam was seated with a cocktail and a dish of
almonds before him. He seemed to be studying an evening paper
and to be taking but the scantiest notice of the conversation at
the bar.

"It just shows," Peter Jacks declared, "that crime is the easiest
game in the world. Given a reasonable amount of intelligence,
and a murderer's business is about as simple as a sandwich-man's."

"The police," Gerald Morse, a pale-faced, anaemic-looking youth,
declared, "rely upon two things, circumstantial evidence and
motive. In the present case there is no circumstantial evidence,
and as to motive, poor old Victor was too big a fool to have an
enemy in the world."

Sidney Voss, who was up for the Sheridan Club and had once been
there, glanced respectfully across at Francis.

"You ought to know something about crime and criminals, Mr.
Ledsam," he said. "Have you any theory about the affair?"

Francis set down the glass from which he had been drinking, and,
folding up the evening paper, laid it by the side of him.

The few words, simply spoken, yet in their way charged with
menace, thrilled through the little room. Fairfax swung round
upon his stool, a tall, aggressive-looking youth whose good-looks
were half eaten up with dissipation. His eyes were unnaturally
bright, the cloudy remains in his glass indicated absinthe.

"Listen, you fellows!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Francis Ledsam, the
great criminal barrister, is going to solve the mystery of poor
old Victor's death for us!"

The three other young men all turned around from the bar. Their
eyes and whole attention seemed rivetted upon Francis. No one
seemed to notice the newcomer who passed quietly to a chair in
the background, although he was a person of some note and
interest to all of them. Imperturbable and immaculate as ever,
Sir Timothy Brast smiled amiably upon the little gathering,
summoned a waiter and ordered a Dry Martini.

"I can scarcely promise to do that," Francis said slowly, his
eyes resting for a second or two upon each of the four faces.
"Exact solutions are a little out of my line. I think I can
promise to give you a shock, though, if you're strong enough to
stand it."

There was another of those curiously charged si ences. The
bartender paused with the cocktail shaker still in his hand.
Voss began to beat nervously upon the counter with his knuckles.

"We can stand anything but suspense," he declared. "Get on with
your shock-giving."

"I believe that the person responsible for the death of Victor
Bidlake is in this room at the present moment," Francis declared.

Again the silence, curious, tense and dramatic. Little Jimmy,
the bartender, who had leaned forward to listen, stood with his
mouth slightly open and the cocktail-shaker which was in his hand
leaked drops upon the counter. The first conscious impulse of
everybody seemed to be to glance suspiciously around the room.
The four young men at the bar, Jimmy and one waiter, Francis and
Sir Timothy Brast, were its only occupants.

"I say, you know, that's a bit thick, isn't it?" Sidney Voss
stammered at last. "I wasn't in the place at all, I was in
Manchester, but it's a bit rough on these other chaps, Victor's
pals."

"I went home directly the bar here closed," Jimmy said, in a
still dazed tone. "I heard nothing about it till the next
morning."

"Alibis by the bushel," Fairfax laughed harshly. "As for me, I
was doing my show--every one knows that. I was never in the
place at all."

"The murder was not committed in the place," Francis commented
calmly.

Fairfax slid off his stool. A spot of colour blazed in his pale
cheeks, the glass which he was holding snapped in his fingers.
He seemed suddenly possessed.

"I say, what the hell are you getting at?" he cried. "Are you
accusing me--or any of us Victor's pals?"

"I accuse no one," Francis replied, unperturbed. "You invited a
statement from me and I made it."

Sir Timothy Brast rose from his place and made his way to the end
of the counter, next to Fairfax and nearest Francis. He
addressed the former. There was an inscrutable smile upon his
lips, his manner was reassuring.

"Young gentleman," he begged, "pray do not disturb yourself. I
will answer for it that neither you nor any of your friends are
the objects of Mr. Leadsam's suspicion. Without a doubt, it is I
to whom his somewhat bold statement refers."

They all stared at him, immersed in another crisis, bereft of
speech. He tapped a cigarette upon the counter and lit it.
Fairfax, whose glass had just been refilled by the bartender, was
still ghastly pale, shaking with nervousness and breathing
hoarsely. Francis, tense and alert in his chair, watched the
speaker but said nothing.

"You see," Sir Timothy continued, addressing himself to the four
young men at the bar, "I happen to have two special aversions in
life. One is sweet champagne and the other amateur detectives
--their stories, their methods and everything about them. I
chanced to sit upstairs in the restaurant, within hearing of Mr.
Ledsam and his friend Mr. Wilmore, the novelist, the other night,
and I heard Mr. Ledsam, very much to my chagrin, announce his
intention of abandoning a career in which he has, if he will
allow me to say so,"--with a courteous bow to Francis--"attained
considerable distinction, to indulge in the moth-eaten,
flamboyant and melodramatic antics of the lesser Sherlock Holmes.
I fear that I could not resist the opportunity of--I think you
young men call it--pulling his leg."

Every one was listening intently, including Shopland, who had
just drifted into the room and subsided into a chair near
Francis.

"I moved my place, therefore," Sir Timothy continued, "and I
whispered in Mr. Ledsam's ear some rodomontade to the effect that
if he were planning to be the giant crime-detector of the world,
I was by ambition the arch-criminal--or words to that effect. And
to give emphasis to my words, I wound up by prophesying a crime
in the immediate vicinity of the place within a few hours."

"A somewhat significant prophecy, under the circumstances,"
Francis remarked, reaching out for a dish of salted almonds and
drawing them towards him.

"I will confess," he admitted, "that I had not in my mind an
affair of such dimensions. My harmless remark, however, has
produced cataclysmic effects. The conversation to which I refer
took place on the night of young Bidlake's murder, and Mr.
Ledsam, with my somewhat, I confess, bombastic words in his
memory, has pitched upon me as the bloodthirsty murderer."

"Hold on for a moment, sir," Peter Jacks begged, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead. "We've got to have another drink
quick. Poor old Bobby here looks knocked all of a heap, and I'm
kind of jumpy myself. You'll join us, sir?"

"I thank you," was the courteous reply. "I do not as a rule
indulge to the extent of more than one cocktail, but I will
recognise the present as an exceptional occasion. To continue,
then," he went on, after the glasses had been filled, "I have
during the last few weeks experienced the ceaseless and lynx-eyed
watch of Mr. Ledsam and presumably his myrmidons. I do not know
whether you are all acquainted with my name, but in case you are
not, let me introduce myself. I am Sir Timothy Brast, Chairman,
as I dare say you know, of the United Transvaal Gold Mines,
Chairman, also, of two of the principal hospitals in London, Vice
President of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals, a patron of sport in many forms, a traveller in many
countries, and a recipient of the honour of knighthood from His
Majesty, in recognition of my services for various philanthropic
works. These facts, however, have availed me nothing now that
the bungling amateur investigator into crime has pointed the
finger of suspicion towards me. My servants and neighbours have
alike been plagued to death with cunning questions as to my life
and habits. I have been watched in the streets and watched in my
harmless amusements. My simple life has been peered into from
every perspective and direction. In short, I am suspect. Mr.
Ledsam's terrifying statement a few minutes ago was directed
towards me and me only."

There were murmurs of sympathy from the four young men, who each
in his own fashion appeared to derive consolation from Sir
Timothy's frank and somewhat caustic statement. Francis, who had
listened unmoved to this flow of words, glanced towards the door
behind which dark figures seemed to be looming.

"For the present, yes," was the guarded reply. "I trust that I
have succeeded in setting these young gentlemen's minds at ease."

"There is one of them," Francis said gravely, "whose mind not
even your soothing words could lighten."

Shopland had risen unobtrusively to his feet. He laid his hand
suddenly on Fairfax's shoulder and whispered in his ear.
Fairfax, after his first start, seemed cool enough. He stretched
out his hand towards the glass which as yet he had not touched;
covered it with his fingers for a moment and drained its
contents. The gently sarcastic smile left Sir Timothy's lips.
His eyebrows met in a quick frown, his eyes glittered.

A policeman in plain clothes had advanced from the door. The
manager hovered in the background. Shopland saw that all was
well.

"It means," he announced, "that I have just arrested Mr. Robert
Fairfax here on a charge of wilful murder. There is a way out
through the kitchens, I believe. Take his other arm, Holmes.
Now, gentlemen, if you please."

There were a few bewildered exclamations--then a dramatic hush.
Fairfax had fallen forward on his stool. He seemed to have
relapsed into a comatose state. Every scrap of colour was
drained from his sallow cheeks, his eyes were covered with a film
and he was breathing heavily. The detective snatched up the
glass from which the young man had been drinking, and smelt it.

"I saw him drop a tablet in just now," Jimmy faltered. "I
thought it was one of the digestion pills he uses sometimes."

Shopland and the policeman placed their hands underneath the
armpits of the unconscious man.

"He's done, sir," the former whispered to Francis. "We'll try
and get him to the station if we can."